something over which it may wax patriotic and loyal. It has no monarch,
and the absurdity of becoming enthusiastic over GRANT'S cigar is only
too manifest. It is therefore obliged to content itself with simulating
a frantic admiration of the Flag.

Now the flag is rather a pretty one, and to people north of MASON and
DIXON'S line, possesses many interesting associations. But the doggerel
which the late Mr. KEY attempted to celebrate it, is not altogether
above reproach. Beginning with the Bowery interrogative "Sa-ay," and
ending with a reference to the "land of the free and the home of the
brave," which the late ELIJAH POGRAM, or the present NATHANIEL BANKS
might have written, it is simply the weakest of rhymed buncombe wedded
to the cheapest of pinchbeck music. And yet we fancy ourselves inspired
when we hear it.

Fortunately, as sung at the BEETHOVEN festival, the words are drowned by
the music, and the music by the artillery. It thus becomes an
inarticulate patriotic "yawp," of tremendous ear-splitting power. But
the public likes it.

They greet it with tremendous roars of applause. The artillery,
discharged with uniform promptness several seconds in advance of time,
renders them wild with delight. PAREPA'S voice, rising at intervals
above even the combined din of instruments, voices, and cannon, is
hardly heeded by them. Noise is what they want, and they have a surfeit
of it. It is only after the performance is ended that the vision of
GILMORE'S ecstatic coat-tails, as they danced to the wild whirling of
his maniacal baton, comes back to their memory. Then they smile and say,
"Curious fellow that GILMORE. Knows how to make himself a pleasing and
prominent feature."